noiselessly
again to light a small lamp out of sight of the patient. "The doctor will
soon be here," she whispered to Buntingford.

The light of the lamp roused the woman. She made a sign to Miss Alcott to
lift her a little.

"Not much," said the Rector's sister in Buntingford's ear. "It's the
heart that's wrong."

Together they raised her just a little. Miss Alcott put a fan into
Buntingford's hands, and opened the windows wider.

"I'm all right," said the stranger irritably. "Let me alone. I've got a
lot to say." She turned her eyes on Buntingford. "Do you want to
know--about Rocca?"

"Yes."

"He died seven years ago. He was always good to me--awfully good to me
and to the boy. We lived in a horrible out-of-the-way place--up in the
mountains near Naples. I didn't want you to know about the boy. I wanted
revenge. Rocca changed his name to Melegrani. I called myself Francesca
Melegrani. I used to exhibit both at Naples and Rome. Nobody ever found
out who we were."

"What made you put that notice in the _Times_?"

She smiled faintly, and the smile recalled to him an old expression of
hers, half-cynical, half-defiant.

"I had a pious fit once--when Rocca was very ill. I confessed to an old
priest--in the Abruzzi. He told me to go back to you--and ask your
forgiveness. I was living in sin, he said--and would go to hell. A dear
old fool! But he had some influence with me. He made me feel some
remorse--about you--only I wouldn't give up the boy. So when Rocca got
well and was going to Lyons, I made him post the notice from there--to
the _Times_. I hoped you'd believe it." Then, unexpectedly, she slightly
raised her head, the better to see the man beside her.

"Do you mean to marry that girl I saw on the lake?"

"If you mean the girl that I was rowing, she is the daughter of a cousin
of mine. I am her guardian."

"She's handsome." Her unfriendly eyes showed her incredulity.

He drew himself stiffly together.

"Don't please waste your strength on foolish ideas. I am not going to
marry her, nor anybody."

"You couldn't--till you divorce me--or till I die," she said feebly, her
lids dropping again--"but I'm quite ready to see any lawyers--so that you
can get free."

"Don't think about that now, but tell me again--what you want me to do."

"I want--to go to--America. I've got friends there. I want you to pay my
passage--because I'm a pauper--and to take over the boy."

"I'll do all that. You shall have a